


Blue of the Distance

by the_ragnarok



Series: Happy Endings [4]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fights, Imprisonment, M/M, Relationship Negotiation, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-11
Updated: 2012-06-26
Packaged: 2017-10-19 07:02:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Eames has a long-delayed freak-out and makes a lot of stupid choices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by laria gwyn, who is made of purified awesome.
> 
> Also, this probably doesn't merit a note, but Eames in this story is kind of a jerk. Also the first installment ends with them in a bad place. Because I am a wuss, it's not going to stay like this. (Obviously, given the rest of the series.) I just thought I'd mention it for like-minded wusses who want this 'verse to stay the happy, fun place it is. <3

There are far, far worse ways to wake up in the morning than next to a warm, lightly snoring Arthur. Eames stretches expansively and grins at nothing and everything at once, thinking, _I could stand to get used to this._ He presses some kisses to Arthur's hairline, but Arthur only grumbles in his sleep and squirms away, so Eames decides to get up in search of sustenance.

The apartment they're in is Eames' – well, Harold Niffinger's, really, but since Harold Niffinger does not exist, and was in actual fact crafted by Eames for tax reasons, it may as well be called Eames' property. It's one of Eames' favorites, the building just old enough to feel comfortably worn in but not so old that everything creaks and nothing works properly. Even the elevator is in good order.

Having a kitchen is a luxury Eames doesn't make light of. Given his lifestyle, it's no surprise that his chances to cook are few and far between. Eames has made his peace with this, resigned himself to living on bad takeout and ramen for weeks at a time. The pay, and the opportunities to eat in truly fine establishments that come with it, more than makes up for it. But it's not really anything like cooking for himself.

He had a little time to shop before Arthur got there yesterday, rumpled from the long flight and blinking with fatigue. Eames put him to bed without much fuss and fell asleep making up plans of several carnal varieties.

It seems like a nice day for eggie bread, so Eames cracks an egg and whistles to himself. He'll make some for Arthur, too.

Soon enough the kitchen is full of the smell of frying eggs. Eames is entertaining the notion of bringing Arthur breakfast in bed when he hears the floorboards creaking and sees Arthur yawning, rotating his shoulders and shaking his head, then settling back into a slouch, scratching his stomach absently.

Eames has never been more grateful for the privacy of his own home, because it allows him to push Arthur gently against the wall and rub his face against Arthur's chest, shameless and heavy with fondness.

"Good morning, darling," Eames says somewhere from the vicinity of Arthur's navel.

"Morning." Arthur slides his fingers into Eames' hair. This is entirely pleasing, so Eames crouches to nuzzle Arthur's stomach in hopes of encouraging it to continue. "Food?"

Eames laughs and gets up. "Yes, food." He ushers Arthur to sit at the table, pushes a plate at him. It's quiet while they eat, only the riotous bird calls from outside the kitchen window to disrupt the silence.

"No, seriously, what is that?" Arthur says, putting his fork down. "Is there an aviary outside the window or something?"

Eames shrugs. "At least it's not pigeons," he says. "Had some of those nesting in one of my other places. Nearly thought the place was haunted."

Arthur's eyebrows rise. "How many places do you have?"

"Oh, enough," Eames says, airy and glib. He knows exactly how many, but honestly, there's no need for that right now.

Arthur's eyes narrow very slightly, as though if he squints hard enough he'll see right through Eames. Eames gets up and distracts Arthur with some carefully placed kisses to his neck.

After that, there aren't any more questions, only some breathless directions. In the end they're lying against the couch (somehow they ended up in the living room; Eames doesn't question these things), sweaty and panting, still half-dressed. They're lying twisted around each other, Eames' thigh between Arthur's legs, Arthur's arms thrown loosely around Eames' shoulders. Every now and then he bows his head to suck at Eames' neck and add another bruise to Eames' growing collection.

Pleasant as this is, they must eventually disentangle. "All right," Arthur says, getting to his feet. "What's next?"

The question catches Eames off guard, not least because he's not certain what Arthur means. "Er," he says, because he's not at his best directly after orgasm.

"I need coffee," Arthur says, shaking his head with more force than is warranted. "Otherwise I'll just be useless all day."

They end up foraging for coffee, because Eames has only instant which Arthur eyes with undisguised horror. This, too, is something Eames could happily get used to – Arthur with foam on his upper lip, eyes closing in bliss as he drinks.

Arthur waits until they return to the apartment to ask, "So where are we going next?"

The difficulty in this question lies in the phrasing. "I have a job lined up," Eames says carefully. "You're welcome to stay here in the meantime, of course." It's not that he wouldn't be perfectly delighted to have Arthur along. But the team already has a point man and they're suspicious enough of strangers as it is.

Breaking into a new line of work is never easy. Once they've built their reputations separately, they can put themselves out as a team, a both-or-nothing kind of deal. But they can't afford to turn down jobs just now. Or rather, Eames can't. Arthur, who doesn't have Eames' reputation as a thief and a liar, might do better. Quite hypocritical, considering that lying and thieving consists their very profession, but so it goes.

For a moment, Eames dreads that Arthur will say – he doesn't quite know _what_ , only that it's something he would really rather avoid. But all Arthur says is, "Amber asked me, actually. If I had anything lined up."

Amber knows what she's doing, and Arthur should do well enough on her team. Eames doesn't sigh in relief, but it's close. "Lovely," he says. "When are you going out?"

They have a week together before they have to leave. Eames resolves to make the best of it.

~~

It all goes quite smoothly until their second job together, and the frustrating part is that the job itself is fine. They go in, they come out, the extractor gives them their pay, and they're done.

Eames drags Arthur away after, for a drink and maybe some light fornication, and everything goes quite agreeably until Arthur raises his head and asks, "Where are you headed next?"

To be honest, Eames has no idea why that question irks him so. It's not as though Arthur's unreasonable to ask it. It's enough to make him sit up, so abruptly that Arthur loses his grip and falls down on the bed. It startles a laugh out of Arthur, and Eames has to bend down and kiss him before anything else.

That might have restored the mood, except that Arthur breaks off the kiss to say, "That's not an answer."

 _I'll show you an answer,_ Eames thinks. He sits back up and so does Arthur, rearranging his newly messed-up suit. "I wasn't aware I had to report to you," Eames says, just barely keeping the bite out of his voice.

Arthur blinks. "So. No job together, I take it."

"No." In fact, Eames isn't sure at all what his next stop is going to be. Right now he's slightly drunk, on success and whiskey and Arthur, and possibly what he feels is only resentment at having to stop and _think_. Life as a dream criminal, it turns out, demands far more planning than life as an ordinary run-of-the-mill criminal.

 _Or perhaps that's just life with Arthur_ , whispers a nasty voice that Eames doesn't want to acknowledge.

He shakes it off mentally and smiles, but Arthur doesn't look like he's buying it. "It's just that Solanas asked me if we're free," he says, with a halting rhythm that makes Eames want to tear something apart.

Solanas is reliable as far as Eames can tell and decent to work with. Which really offers no help explaining why Eames says, "Can't, love. Got something booked."

"Okay," Arthur says. "So you wouldn't mind if I took the job with Solanas?"

"Not in the least." And that might have been it – hell, Eames might even have come to his senses and apologized, or at least asked Arthur more about that job with Solanas – except that Arthur then says, "So what about you?"

"Got an offer from Julietta," Eames says.

Arthur goes tense and very still. Right at this moment, Eames finds a sort of vicious delight in it. "Is there a problem, darling?"

"Wasn't she the one who tried to kill you?" Arthur's voice goes quiet, hard-edged.

Eames shrugs expansively. "What's a few murder attempts between friends?"

To Eames' surprise, that makes Arthur break into soft, short laughter. "My mom used to say, if they're trying to kill you, they aren't your friends."

Given what Eames has found out about Arthur's mother, that sounds about right. "And still," he says. "It's just a job."

"If you say 'what could possibly go wrong,’" Arthur says, "I'm shooting you preemptively. Just to save time and effort."

Eames does laugh at this, and lets Arthur kiss him and push him down into the bed. Doesn't get rid of the pressure in him, that feeling like there's something about to break.

It does make Eames feel guilty later, when he's packing a bag and Arthur's sound asleep. He thinks of leaving a note for a moment, then shrugs the thought off. Arthur will do just fine without him.


	2. Chapter 2

Eames doesn't start rethinking it until he's on the plane to Moscow, but by then he's had a couple of drinks and some time to mull everything over.

 _Arthur will do just fine,_ he thinks, staring out the window at a world gone gray and bland, above the clouds. He's been thinking variations of this for something like a few hours now, intermittently, but it's starting to shift in flavor into something which Eames would rather not deal with right now.

He charms another drink out of the flight attendant and goes back to pondering his job instead.

Eames never even meant to take it, truly. He was mulling over his options – _not at all avoiding making plans_ , and really sometimes Eames _hates_ that voice in the back of his head – waiting for something better, something else. Something.

If he reflects on it, the job with Solanas may well have been exactly such an opportunity. But Eames doesn't want to reflect on it, so he finishes his drink and opens the briefs that Julietta sent him.

They're comprehensive – say what you like about Julietta, but her research is flawless. It's one of Eames' favorite things about her, even when she uses it against him. The mark is a businessman. Eames can't tell just yet whether he's legit, but really those things hardly matter.

The objective appears straightforward enough – get the combinations to some locked safes, Eames could not really care less about what's inside them. What they need a forger for, he has no bloody clue, but surely Julietta will supply the missing information. She's good like that.

Possibly that's not the best attitude to bring to a job he's just started, but bugger it. Eames will have a good night's rest, sober up and everything will seem clearer. It always does.

~~

But not, it appears, this time.

Eames wakes up after said good night's sleep, in a hotel that's actually quite decent, feeling absolutely foul. There's not enough of a difference in time zones to call it jet-lag, he certainly did not drink enough last night to merit a hangover. Perhaps he's coming down with something.

It lasts through the day, defying the aspirins Eames tosses back and even the disgusting black coffee Ekaterin, Julietta's chemist, brews.

"If that didn't work," Ekaterin says, pouring herself another glass, "it's hopeless. Resign yourself to your suffering."

"I'll resign all right," Eames mutters, but he doesn't truly mean it.

By the time evening rolls around, though, he's all but accepted his fate. He figures that since he has the hangover already, he may as well get drunk, so he finds his way to the nearest bar and plonks himself on a stool.

He scopes the crowd as he nurses his drink, first in idle curiosity then with more intent.

After all, it's not like he ever promised Arthur anything. And even if he did, it's hardly the first he's broken. Eames would add on such platitudes as _What Arthur doesn't know can't hurt me_ , except that considering the manner of Eames' leaving he doubts he has anything to return to anyway.

It's odd, though. Normally, coming down from a relationship, Eames opts for the complete opposite of what he just left behind. That woman by the door, perhaps, tall with lovely biceps and a blonde buzz-cut. But instead Eames finds himself drawn to a slender, dark-haired man who's scowling at his drink like it personally offended him.

This, at least, provides Eames with a beginning line. "You look like that drink just said something disgusting about your mother," Eames says affably. Or he hopes he is; at the very least he doesn't think he's slurring too much. "Do allow me to replace it."

The man stares at him – possibly Eames _is_ slurring a little. Eames straightens, smooths a hand over his lapels in as dignified a manner as he can muster, and falls over.

To Eames’ credit, that's less because of the drink and more from the blunt hit to his head. On the way down he hears someone growl, "Mr. Kaplan does not take his business interests lightly," which is just the perfect way to end this bloody day.

~~

So in the end it turns out that Eames was hired on this job to play bait. Which really is the mildest vengeance Julietta could have wrought against him, so Eames isn't particularly angry at her. He's mad at himself, if anything, for letting himself get caught in a bad situation out of sheer bullheadedness and petty spite.

"You should have meditated," says Marina. She is, in no particular order: the woman Eames saw at the bar, the one who gave him the spectacular bump on his head, as well as some other assorted bruises, and his current warden. She's got a cloth-bound book in her hand, and when Eames fails to be entertaining she flicks it open and reads.

Eames tried to escape when she was thus distracted. Once. He's not going to try again, at least not unless the situation grows significantly more dire.

For now, he has nothing to do but reflect on the glumness of this situation and try to entertain Marina in the vain hope she might be sufficiently charmed to release him. Eames is, above all things, an optimist.

"What are you reading?" he says, because it's a better start than nothing.

"Pushkin." She doesn't look up.

"Oh? Which?" What Eames knows about Russian literature is mostly limited to wikipedia summaries and fragmented recollections of his A-levels, but if he can't hold a conversation on the subject he may as well hang up his con-man's hat and retire in disgrace.

"Onegin." Everything about her still communicates disinterest, but Eames has a good feeling about this line of conversation.

"Never read it," he says, because honesty is the best default. "Any good?"

That wins her attention. "Only enough to be a classic." Her voice is dry.

Eames gives her his best smile. "What's it about then?"

Marina shrugs. "What is every book about? Love, death and people being stupid." She gives him a sidelong glance. "You've truly never read it? Travesty."

"I'd love it if you told me more," Eames says, with utter sincerity. It could prove educational, in more ways than one.

She closes the book with a snap and closes her eyes. "Right. Heedless of the proud world's enjoyment, I prize the attention of my friends..." After the first few lines she opens the book again. She doesn't bother preserving the rhyme or the meter, but it survives translation and passes the time, for which Eames is exceedingly grateful.

"Very nice," he says when she stops. "You have a sideline in translation?"

Marina shrugs modestly. "I dabble."

Eames continues in some shameless flattery. Then he adds, "Pity you're working in such a mindless profession."

Her lip curls. "I should be insulted by this. Also, this will not work. Don't bother trying."

"If I am guilty of trying to flatter a charming lady," Eames says, spreading his arms, "then so be it." Her snort echoes off the bleak concrete walls.

Ten minutes later, Marina looks at him and says, "If you would like to hear more?" with the ill-concealed hope of an enthusiast with a literally captive audience.

"By all means," Eames says, and moves to a more comfortable crouch.

~~

This, at least, makes Eames' captivity less monotonous, and has the added advantage of turning Marina into something approaching friendly.

"Met Kaplan's new masseuse today," she tells Eames as she puts her book aside. She's gotten tired of Pushkin and moved on to some science fiction thing that makes no sense at all to Eames.

Eames draws himself up to lean on his elbows, still panting from exertion. He's taken to doing push-ups to alleviate the boredom. "Oh?" Kaplan does enjoy his luxuries, from what Eames remembers of the briefings. "What's she like?" Marina won't give him anything to work with, but she'll let a little gossip slip, and there's no telling what may end up being useful.

"He, actually," Marina says, and Eames freezes.

Those two words should _not_ be sending shivers down Eames' spine. He tells himself very firmly he's being ridiculous and does _not_ ask, "What's _he_ like, then?"

"Decent enough, I suppose," Marina says. So Eames _did_ say it, apparently. Imprisonment is clearly leading his brain to early rot.

Eames comes nearer the bars. "What does he look like?" Purely to get a better handle on Kaplan's preferences, of course. "Is he handsome?"

Marina shrugs. "Dark hair. Tallish. Okay-looking, I don't know."

Eames' heart is beating double-time at this, which is just plain silly. Arthur wouldn't be coming all this way after him. He'll be lucky if Arthur even lets Eames find him after all this mess, after walking out without a word. Not that Eames would be looking. Of course not.

At any rate, nobody should be able to describe Arthur as merely _okay-looking_.

"Anything new from my colleagues?" he says, instead of continuing in this line. Mustn't make Marina suspicious. Although of course there's nothing to suspect.

Marina keeps silent, as she always does when Eames tries for anything pertinent to his situation. Eames' guess is, Kaplan mistakenly believes that Eames is some kind of guarantee for Julietta's good behavior. He's to languish here while Julietta continues her operation covertly, and if she gets found out, well, Eames shall learn of it soon enough in the least possibly pleasant way.

Eames sighs. "Have you made any progress with your Akhmatova translations?" Marina brightens. Might as well improve one of their days.

~~

The footsteps echoing through the stark hallways are unfamiliar. Eames tenses where he’s lying, thrown out of a fragile sleep.

When a heavy hand grabs him by the scruff of his neck, though, Eames gives it up. “What is it?” He shakes the guard off. Surprisingly, the guard takes a step back and only jerks his head sharply. Eames presumes that means he is to get up and follow.

The guard is armed, so Eames doesn’t make any attempts at escape. He’s led through corridors upon corridors, through seemingly unending stairways that grow plusher and more welcoming as they progress. To the bits of the mansion meant for polite company, Eames supposes.

Finally he reaches a room guarded by a man and a woman wearing something like a uniform. There’s a brief, terse exchange; the man goes into the room, leaving the woman and the guard that brought Eames to keep watch.

After a few minutes the man comes out, holding the door open for them. Eames walks into a cloud of steam.

He blinks his eyes clear to see Kaplan lying on a bed in naught but a towel to cover his private parts. It’s not a particularly compelling sight, but Eames has seen worse in his time. He forces a smile. “Mr. Kaplan. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise, I’m sure,” Kaplan says. “Do forgive my present state.“ He gestures at his own near-nudity.

“You’re a busy man,” Eames says.

Kaplan favors him with a smile. “Thank you for understanding.” He shifts slightly. “Ms. Arroyo has given me a very good impression of your abilities, if inadvertently so.”

 _Inadvertently my arse_ , Eames thinks, careful not to show his irritation. Julietta was always excellent at letting people buy her ideas and think they came up with them themselves. Makes her a bloody good extractor, though. “Glad to know she thinks so,” he says, trying hard for a neutral expression.

“Knowing what I know, it’s not without justification.” A sound comes from the other end of the room. Kaplan’s face brightens momentarily. He says something in Russian - Eames swears, when he gets out of here, first thing he’ll do is learn that blighted language - and someone walks into the room.

In moments of surprise, snapping out of a long-held tension, Eames’ first impulse is for violence: Swing a fist, shoot a gun, at the very least yell something profane. It’s a very, very good thing that Eames has spent years learning to control his impulses, since if he hadn’t he would’ve quite likely sprinted across the room and _something_ would’ve broken in the process.

“ _Da,_ ” Arthur says, and puts his hands down on Kaplan’s shoulders. Eames doesn’t know where to look, he can’t - not at Arthur’s face (serene, with the hair framing it loose and free), not at Kaplan’s (twisting in a grimace as Arthur digs _hard_ into his back), not at Arthur himself (half-hidden behind the massage table, but clearly wearing the tight jeans of his previous occupation rather than the sharp suits Eames helped him buy).

Certainly not at Arthur’s hands, because one look at them makes Eames _ache_. It only makes it worse to realize that no, he’s been aching for them the whole time, since he boarded that goddamned plane, and it took him this long to realize.

Eames takes a deep breath, shoves all of that into a box in the back of his mind and slams the lid down hard. “I beg your pardon,” he says to Kaplan. “I didn’t quite catch that...?”

~~

Kaplan wants to play a double cross, of course. To release Eames back into Julietta’s loving clutches so he can report on everything she does. Eames hems and haws, stating his professional pride and particular loyalty to Julietta. Judging by Kaplan’s shark-like gaze, he suspects Eames’ real reason, which is that frankly he finds Julietta more frightening.

He sends Eames back to his cell - accompanied by a guard, of course - to think things over. Which Eames does, thoroughly, although probably not in the way Kaplan intends.

As soon as the guard is out of sight, Eames collapses on his bunk, allowing himself an explosive sigh. He consciously relaxes, closes his eyes and examines his thoughts. The first of which is, _what the bloody fuck is Arthur_ doing _here?_

Surely it has something to do with the job. Perhaps that thing Solanas was up to involved the same objectives as the job taken by Julietta’s group, but somehow Eames doesn’t think so.

What else could have brought Arthur here? Anger? Doubtlessly leaving him here to rot would have been better; Arthur, if he found him here, can always track Eames down when he makes his breakout, at considerably less risk.

That leaves one option, but Eames doesn’t look at it closely. That can’t possibly be it. There’s just something he’s overlooking.

Marina’s presence is almost welcome by the time she walks up the corridor, and not only because she’s bringing him dinner.

She eats her own dinner along with him, in companionable silence. Eames finds he feels the urge to break it.

“Tell me, Marina.” He wipes a bit of gruel from the corner of his mouth. “Are you married? Or have you ever been?”

She squints at him, but that information is apparently deemed Not Classified, because she says, “No.” She doesn’t look very interested in that line of conversation, so it must be pure manners prompting her to ask, “And you?”

“Once before.” Eames doesn’t feel like explaining the particulars of his current marital situation. For one thing, he’s not entirely certain of it himself. “For a little under a year.”

“That’s short.” Marina eyes him, not without sympathy. “Why did you break up?”

Eames shrugs, helpless to explain the exact situation. “Our interests diverged too much.” Surprisingly, that’s about what happened. It had been amicable, nothing like the current drama with the Russian mob and storming off in the night. He raises his eyes, intending to say more, but Marina is glancing at her book with the familiar expression of the politely bored, so Eames lets the subject drop.

As Marina reads Eames almost wishes for her to read to him again, as incomprehensible as that blasted book is. It’s better than thinking of Arthur, and Kaplan, and Julietta, worrying and wondering.

 _His hands_ , Eames thinks dimly as he lies down to sleep. _Fuck, I miss his hands. I miss his voice._ None of this is the way things were supposed to happen. It doesn’t even make sense.

In the second before he blinks out, Eames thinks, _I wish he had said something_.


	3. Chapter 3

A rapid-fire stream of Russian wakes Eames from his fitful sleep. He takes care not to show that he's awake – never know when you might learn something.

Of course, he can't understand a word, but the sound of footsteps, quickly diminishing, speaks loud enough. Cautiously, Eames opens his eyes. He is unguarded. This isn't the first time that happened. Unfortunately, the concrete and steel are even less susceptible to Eames' charms than Marina is.

At any rate, she seems to be coming back already – _wait._ That's not her walking, the rhythm is entirely wrong. Swifter and quieter at the same time.

Before Eames can quite think of an explanation, Arthur comes to kneel in front of the cell door, so they're eye to eye. "I don't have a lot of time," Arthur says, low, "so listen and I'll make it quick."

Eames nods, dumbly. He hasn't the first idea what to say in any case.

"I'm here with Julietta's team," Arthur says, and that stings far worse than it ought to. "As far as they're concerned, you walked out on me and now I hate you."

 _As far as they're concerned?_ Eames thinks, slightly dizzy with the possibilities. Or perhaps with the smell of Arthur's sweat, close and heady.

"I'm supposed to watch over them while they're under. So when we go for Kaplan, I'll make a break for it and get you out." Arthur pulls a small gun out of his jacket and slides it under the bars to Eames. "This is only for emergencies. Don't try to break yourself out. Wait until I come for you. Questions?"

 _About a thousand or so,_ Eames thinks, but there's no time and one extremely pertinent matter to acknowledge. "Julietta's no fool. She won't trust you," Eames says. "She'll have backups in case you do exactly as you've just said. Find out what they are and disable them."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Yeah, because I have no idea what I'm doing at all." He darts a quick glance down the hall, lowers his voice further, so that Eames has to strain to hear. "Fuck, you _idiot_. Do you have any idea how worried I was about you?"

Eames opens his mouth but nothing will come out, because truth be told, he doesn't. He doesn't comprehend this, the soft curve of Arthur's mouth, fondness cutting through the tension. Eames doesn't dare to look down at Arthur's hands, because he's certain to do something unexpected and mortifying if he does.

"Yeah, okay, save it for later," Arthur says, a real smile flickering on his face. It fades in a moment as he looks down the hall again. "Shit. Remember what I said, I'll try to come as soon as I can. Don't get yourself killed." The last words so soft that Eames isn't sure he spoke them at all.

Eames would ask what Arthur's talking about, not to mention _when_ the bloody grab is planned for, except that now he hears it, too – Marina's voice, the words indistinct but annoyance clear even from a distance. Arthur gets to his feet, shakes his head so his hair gets in his eyes, and assumes an expression so blank that Eames is tempted to prod him to check for spontaneous transformation into wax.

(Or possibly just slide his hand up Arthur's ankle, just a little, to see that his skin is still soft and warm and – _shit_.)

Arthur addresses Marina in Russian, and she gestures and answers in the same. Arthur nods and leaves.

"What was that all about?" Eames asks.

"Him or the call?" Marina says. "One of these, you will not get an answer for."

"Him, then," Eames says, since he doubts that counts as a security breach.

"Lost." Marina sits on the floor, cross-legged, grumbling as she folds down. "The cold gets into my bones. I should bring a pillow."

"Bring one for me, too?" Eames suggests.

Marina snorts. "Perhaps. Meanwhile, I have an article to read. I will need to concentrate. Try to be quiet."

She sits just close enough for Eames to try his hand at a little pick-pocketing, but she has her keys in the pocket opposite of him, worse luck. Eames lies back down in bed. He doesn't sleep for a long, long time.

~~

After a few – nights? It's hard to keep track of time – Eames starts to consider a new theory. Maybe he was right all along, maybe Arthur _is_ angry, and that supposed escape plan was only meant to torment Eames further.

"Hope," he says aloud. "Hope, something something... There's a poem along those lines, no?"

Marina shrugs. She's wearing reading glasses and twirling a marker between her hands. Eames eyes it with resentment – she's nearly taken his eye out with that thing earlier. Marina's preoccupation with her reading, it appears, does not preclude an ability to take Eames out fast and impersonally. "Doubtless. It's a common subject." She chews on the marker. "What rhymes with _danger_ , Eames?"

She's calling him by name; that's progress, that is. If she won't set him free, at least there are greater odds she'll hesitate to shoot him dead. "Stranger?" Eames says. Marina scoffs at it – well, it is a little obvious. "Sorry, love," he says. "Not my strong suit. I can recite it, but I can't write it."

Marina puts her papers down. "Can you?" She sounds genuinely interested, so Eames wracks his brain for something she might enjoy.

He ends up going through a bunch of Kipling, which Marina seems to enjoy mocking and dissecting more than anything else.

"I like it," Eames says, mock-wounded, after she's skewered chosen lines in Female of the Species. " _She who faces death by torture for each life beneath her breast_ \- that's timeless, Marina, you can't knock that."

"I believe I just did." She makes a face. "That is just so overought. I begin to believe you have no taste."

"Oh, that is not on," Eames says heatedly. "You're just – here, tell you what, tell me you don't like _this_ , and that'll prove you've no heart at all." He launches into Yeats' _When You Are Old_ , and for a mercy, she lets him go through the entire three verses without interrupting. Her expression is thoughtful, when he finishes, and she's quiet for a little while longer.

"Well?" he demands, once he's caught his breath – he may have been a little overenthusiastic about it.

"Maudlin," she says shortly, and Eames mimes pulling his hair out in rage.

"Pearl of the English language!" Eames says. It's all he can do to hold back a _harrumph_.

Marina says, "Doesn't make sense. I mean – yes, someone will love you always, but in the end that love is also fled? Seriously. My sixteen year old sister writes that sort of poetry."

"No understanding at _all_ ," Eames says, and turns his back to her. When he checks, from the corner of his eye, she's engrossed in her papers again.

Irrationally, he is a little miffed. He _likes_ those poems, damn it, liked them well enough to commit to memory; having what one loves so harshly criticized is never pleasant.

 _Beside,_ he thinks, crossing his legs to sit down on the floor, _it makes perfect sense. There was love, and then there wasn't._ That is, in Eames' experience, simply how things go. Tragic, surely; but while it lasts, all the lovelier for it. Nothing gold can stay, and so forth.

"Marina," Eames says, turning back abruptly. "Have you ever – "

"Is this question going to be inappropriate?" She doesn't even look up from her bloody work.

Eames exhales. "Probably." He turns back to the wall, hands clenching into themselves rhythmically.

 _This doesn't make sense,_ he thinks, closing his eyes. _It's never been like this. What's he done to me? What did I let him do?_

Because hope is a vicious thing, gnawing at him; and once he's let it rear its ugly head, it doesn't let go. _Tenacious little bugger,_ Eames thinks, not certain if he means hope or Arthur. Or perhaps there's not much of a difference at this point in time.

~~

The worst thing about captivity is the tedium. Nothing to do but work out and recite poetry. Kaplan's called for Eames twice now. Fortunately for Eames' focus, while Arthur wasn't in the room.

“Your loyalty is commendable,” Kaplan said. Eames refrained from rolling his eyes, which was the best he could do under the circumstances.

Perhaps he should. Except that now Arthur is with Julietta’s team, and Eames may have left him to fend for himself but he won’t betray him outright. The very thought makes him ill, sitting heavy in the bottom of his stomach. Eames has loved and left many times, but he’s never purposefully hurt someone who’s shown him kindness and he doesn’t intend to start.

Eames sighs and stirs, eying Marina resentfully. She’s not forthcoming in any kind of conversation. Eames is _bored_. He can’t move, there’s nothing to read, he can't even have a proper wank.

That last is the worst part, since it comes not from Eames' lack of privacy – he suspects Marina can look the other way and he's not all that bothered anyway – but rather from disturbingly persistent paths his thoughts take lately. It'll be _sex_ , and then it'll be _Arthur_ , and then it'll be an entire array of things Eames would rather avoid.

Right, Arthur’s dead sexy. This is nothing new. But there’s no lack of sexy people out there, of many shapes and sizes and interesting proficiencies with firearms, the way a hand wraps around the grip of a gun -

Eames raises his hand, which has wandered into his pants, and sets it behind his head. That was Arthur’s hand he imagined, his long elegant fingers and the muscles playing at his forearm.

Bugger, there he goes again. Millions of sexy arms in the world, must he think of Arthur’s?

It makes him want to be vicious, hurtful. For some reason the first image that calls to mind is Arthur and Julietta, conspiring, tumbling into bed. He can imagine her kissing Arthur, can imagine her pushing into his personal space.

But then he remembers asking Arthur about open relationships, half-joking, and Arthur saying, “Not if I’m in them.” In his mind, Arthur pushes Julietta away, storms out of the room.

Eames has made a career of understanding people, of foreseeing their actions in every possible eventuality. And no matter how he tries to twist the scenario in his mind, he can’t imagine Arthur accepting Julietta, can’t imagine Arthur forsaking him.

 _Maybe if she told him the truth,_ Eames thinks, bleak. That Eames doesn’t do long term and never has, that he loves for a night or a week or a month, that his affection burns brightly and is quickly gone.

And yet, he can’t see Arthur accepting that. When he tries to think of saying it to Arthur himself, his voice shrivels up and dies. It’s not even trying to imagine the expression on Arthur’s face that puts him out of sorts.

For a deception to be effective, there must be a grain of truth to it. When Eames thinks of telling Arthur, “I don’t love you anymore,” he can’t say it for the simple reason that it’s blatantly, utterly false.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Wow, it's been ages. But the angsty part is all but over with, now, and I hope to finish this (finally!) soon. Beta'd by anatsuno, who is Bestest.

When in captivity, it's always wise to be careful biting into food. This practice has kept Eames safe from poisoning twice and once, memorably, from being blown into bits by a converted land mine.

It continues to prove expedient when Eames, tearing his breakfast bun into tiny nibbles, finds a piece of paper hidden in the pastry. Eames nimbly slips it into his sleeve until Marina is properly engrossed in her coursework, then takes it out.

_1 week_ , it says, in dense spiky handwriting. Eames is tempted to clutch it to his chest, ridiculously, but refrains. He scans the note for additional information, glancing at it against the light.

Furtively, Eames yields into an urge to sniff it for traces of Arthur’s scent. It smells only of warm bread. Slightly disgusted with himself, Eames pops the note into his mouth and chews. The thin paper makes it easy to swallow. Evidence safely disposed of, Eames sits back to plot and ponder.

So it’s come to this, has it? One week, and unless Arthur is purposefully stringing him along, this wait will be over. There really isn’t much for Eames to do but wait.

He forces himself to sit back and relax. Easy as anything, that ought to be. Eames is not an impatient man. He can wait a week.

~~

He can't wait a single day, it turns out.

Eames stares at the shattered remains of what used to be his dinner tray.

"I hope you don't think I'm cleaning that for you," Marina says. She's standing a few steps back, eying the ruin of Eames' dinner apprehensively.

"'Course not," Eames says, gaze still fixed downwards. "Might I ask you bring me something to clean it with?"

Marina tilts her head. "And have you try to escape while I'm away? No."

She doesn't speak to him while she eats, either, looking away pointedly. Eames supposes the bit of him that still registers human manners should be feeling ashamed. He listens for hints that his long-ignored conscience is coming back, but can't hear anything beyond the rush of blood in his ears.

The afternoon has dragged on like purgatory. For some reason Eames can't explain, his cell has become entirely unbearable, too small and dank. His lungs ache for clear air.

_Liar._

(It's far too late to try to deny that Eames' inner voice sounds a lot like Arthur. Every time Eames tries to lie to himself or just let things _be_ there's that voice, pointing out calmly that Eames is doing things wrong.)

(Just as well, since Eames is starting to believe in earnest that this is the closest he'll come to hearing Arthur's voice again.)

Eames retreats, throwing himself face-down on his cot, which creaks alarmingly.

"You do realize," Marina says, "that if that thing breaks you still have to sleep on it?"

Eames doesn't answer. Bugger logic. Eames has had enough of buggering logic for the day, for the rest of his life.

_And not nearly enough of buggering Arthur._ Now, see, this is rather more like Eames. Or it would be, at least, if it wasn't for this bewildering attachment. Eames flips to his back, staring at the ceiling.

"I don't think I know who I am anymore," he says.

"Can you have your existential breakdown more quietly, please?" Marina doesn't even look up at him, the snob. "Some of us have midterms."

"Well, some of us have a _life_ ," Eames says, but quietly enough that either she doesn't hear him or chooses to ignore it.

~~

It's bloody unbearable, is what it is.

With no other recourse in sight, Eames turns to lie facing the wall and puts a hand down his pants. Since his brain is being a completely useless rag, Eames may as well have some fun.

Odd to call it fun, though. For all of Eames’ sexual frustration, wrapping his hand around his cock is one of the single least joyous experiences he can ever recount. Most annoyingly, because if not for joy, why is Eames even bothering with this?

If he’s honest (just this once, while nobody’s looking), there is - of course - a reason. It’s a sad embarrassing truth that at times Eames does, in fact, think with his cock. More importantly, his cock has come up with some surprisingly useful insights in the past.

Eames deals in human interactions, in conversation and compromise, the give and take that is sociability. Sex is a part of it, and a bloody important one; Eames has figured out more than one mark by imagining what they’d be like in bed, in vivid detail. Most of these people were wilier than Arthur by far.

Arthur, then. Arthur spread on his back, looking up at Eames with that slight smile... No, doesn’t work. Eames sighs, rubs at himself, and casts for the scenario he wants. Possibly with him lying down, legs wrapped around Arthur’s waist... No, that’s not it either.

Eames feels himself softening slightly, losing interest. It’s not about what he finds hot, or it is, in a way, because Eames finds everything hot under the right context. But he needs an image that won’t fall apart, something that could stay cohesive and _fit_.

He ventures into more esoteric thoughts, fantasies he thinks Arthur has hinted he approved of. Ties, yes, ropes, tight, and Arthur’s teeth sharp on his skin. That’s a start. Arthur likes being tied down, doesn’t he, goes all loose and happy for Eames.

God, Arthur is so fucking beautiful like this. But the image - something is wrong about the image, and Eames can’t quite tell _why_. He frowns, sets about pulling his mental scenario apart and rebuilding it.

The ropes – no, wait, padded restraints instead, soft and snug around Arthur’s wrists. Not spread out all tight, no reason to cause Arthur discomfort. Rather, let him curl slightly, his posture giving way to a lazy sprawl while he looks up at Eames – no, slightly beyond him, content and out of focus.

Eames’ hand stills on his cock. The image is clear and perfect in his mind, beautiful, but he can’t even imagine sex. The closest thing he can reach is sliding behind Arthur, kissing a line from his shoulder to his elbow, and falling asleep there. It’s fucking ridiculous, but it gets Eames to sleep, lying on a hard cot and imagining Arthur warm in his arms.

~~

In the morning it’s worse, which Eames finds completely fucking inconceivable. It doesn’t even seem worth the bother to move out of his cot to see if food has arrived or to needle Marina. He stares at the wall and tries to understand, if not the cause of his sudden fury, then at least its target.

Far too easy to decide that he’s angry with Arthur, incomprehensible and too far away. Eames knows better than that. He’s not angry with his captors, either, or Julietta for putting him in this situation.

Eames is forced to conclude that he’s angry with himself, which leaves the question of _why_. This is not a promising route of questioning; Eames is aware that he has a bent for guessing games, and this would not be the first time his subconscious decided to play silly buggers with him.

The trick is not to face the matter directly, but to creep up on it. So Eames lies on his back and thinks idly, pointedly, of nothing at all.

Nothing shifts very quickly into Arthur, which is not surprising in the least. What is surprising, however, is that this Arthur he’s imagining seems unusually aggressive.

Eames hums agreeably and moves along this line of thinking, Arthur with his teeth bared tying Eames’ hands back, sharp and vicious. Arthur kicking Eames’ legs open, grasping Eames’ cock with a grip proprietary and so tight that it almost hurts, no, actually hurts, till Eames wants to whimper and –

And push into it, apparently.

Eames thinks of Arthur’s face, of the fire he’s seen in his eyes once or twice when things were deadly serious. That utter determination to do or perish, his fingers pressing hard into Eames’ skin, merciless.

There are no words in this daydream, nothing but grunts and hissed breaths. Arthur does _things_ to Eames, each more depraved and painful and violent than the last, escalating rapidly until Eames is tense as a piano wire, waiting to call for mercy.

Except he can’t, he won’t. It’s not that he deserves the punishment, though he probably does. It’s not that he wants it, not for its own sake.

But the fire in Arthur’s eyes is a savage joy, and Eames can’t say anything to it but _yes_ , can’t help but fold and comply, eager, to anything Arthur could possibly ask and more.

Climax sneaks up on him, is a bitten lip and a hand clenched furtively in his pants, body as still as he can keep it, even his breathing kept under control. Hidden. Safe, if such a thing exists.

Eames wipes his hand on the sorry excuse for a bedsheet he has, letting his heartbeat slow. He is now more confused than before.

~~

“Mr. Kaplan wants you,” a guard says, and Eames follows.

He's not lead to Kaplan's office, as before. The guard this time takes him up hidden stairs with a low ceiling, the concrete walls oppressive around Eames, and into a small room with an even smaller window. Overlooking, Eames finds, Kaplan's office.

It's a reflection of Eames' first meeting with Kaplan: the man lies undressed on a massage table, only a towel keeping his private parts private. Behind him stands Arthur, his hands kneading the muscles of Kaplan’s back, his eyes downcast. Choosing to meet like this is a diversion tactic as well as a subtle insult to Kaplan’s guests, but it’s plainly not going to distract Julietta - who faces him, her expression blank - from her purpose. Eames knows for a fact that she has seen worse.

Julietta’s voice carries clearly to the little openings in the wall near Eames: “So, have we stayed on your leash nicely enough?” Not one to mince words, Julietta.

“Mm, yes,” Kaplan hums. Whether that is in response to Julietta or to Arthur's ministrations is debatable. Hidden away, Eames grits his teeth, not letting himself remember how good those hands felt on him. “I might even allow you to leave the country in a few more days, all other things standing.”

Julietta cocks her hips. “I need you to clarify what you mean when you say _you_.”

“Well, I'm going to keep what collateral I have,” Kaplan says matter-of-factly. “But the rest of you shall be free to do as you please. Wouldn't that be agreeable to you?”

Julietta gives him a calculating look, then with a jerk of her head says, “I'm not talking about this with an audience. Tell him to leave.”

Kaplan shrugs. “I wouldn't be worried about Gurevich, if I were you, but if you're concerned,” he addresses Arthur in a quick stream of Russian. Arthur merely answers, “ _Da,_ ” and leaves.

Eames' fingertips curl against the sill, bare concrete digging in. He exhales slowly, making very certain to keep quiet.

“Leaving without a part of my crew isn't optimal,” Julietta says. “It'll cost me, and not just money. My reputation's on the line, here.”

Kaplan makes a rude noise. “You forfeited that when you allowed yourself to get caught. Leave the haggling, Ms. Arroyo, you're clearly outmatched and you know it.” He pauses to receive her glare benignly. “But I may compensate you, you might say, for your cooperation.”

A brief moment of silence, then, “Three hundred thousand,” Julietta says.

Eames feels a tap on his shoulder. The guard besides him raises his eyebrows.

“Thank you, yes, I've seen enough,” Eames says softly. He allows himself to be led back to the cell.

~~

It's hardly insulting that Julietta will abandon him – that's not even a surprise. The price she asked _was_ offensively low, but Eames shan't shed too many tears over that.

What he can't get out of his mind is Julietta dismissing Arthur. Did she suspect – no, unlikely, given that Arthur was still free to wander and not tied up in Julietta's sorry excuse for a headquarters. That leaves two options: either she thought Arthur would give the game away through incompetence, or she intended to sell him out as well. Abandon him here to Kaplan's tender mercies, or rather, the lack thereof.

Eames isn't certain which of these options infuriates him more.

Marina lets him into his cell in forbidding silence. Still annoyed with him, probably – easy enough to fix, with some time. For now, Eames gives her his most ingratiating grin.

He doesn’t truly have a right to talk (so to speak), given how he walked out on Arthur. Really, Eames was more than a bit of a bastard. If he’s to take Arthur at face value – novel thought – then there’s no one Eames can blame but himself. Arthur did tell him, repeatedly and clearly, that this was for keeps: shame on Eames for not listening.

But the thing is, it scares him. That he wants Arthur, so strongly, _still_. Scares him enough to be a proper bastard to him. He, selfishly, wanted Arthur tied to him, then proceeded to freak the fuck out when he found out the tether goes both ways.

Marina's giving him sideways looks. She's weakening. Eames starts to turn towards her, working on a way to tilt the situation to his favor, and freezes.

Christ. So _that's_ what he's been about?

“Marina,” Eames says slowly. “What would you say of a man who meant to help someone in a difficult situation, ended up embroiling that person in quite _another_ difficult situation, then walked out on them?”

“Nothing good,” she says shortly. “I thought you were done having a nervous breakdown.”

“Nearly through,” he promises. “But suppose the second person, here, is an absolutely amazing individual with a baffling array of skills and abilities. And the first person only wanted to give them a little nudge, like, to see what they could be when they _weren't_ weighted down by whatever crap life threw at them.”

Marina tilts her head. “And next you'll say that the second difficult situation wasn't the first person's fault?”

“I – “ Eames pauses, and sighs. “No, I cannot in good faith say that.”

“Then,” Marina says reasonably, “I'd at least expect the first person to get the second person out of the second situation.” She frowns, looking at her fingers. “Wait, did I get that right?”

“Completely,” Eames reassures her. “And I think you're quite correct.” He sighs again.

“Stop it with the melodrama already.” Marina says, but there's a smile lurking in the corner of her lips.

“Yes, ma'am,” Eames says humbly, just to see that smile grow a fraction.

~~

It's a good thing the guard comes to fetch him again a few hours later. In Eames' current mood, he'd almost definitely have attempted a breakout, which would have strained his already-fragile peace with Marina.

It would have been futile, too, but since when has Eames let that stop him?

Kaplan, mercifully, is dressed and alone in his office. “So what did you think?” he asks without preamble.

No need to ask _about what?_. “She's selling me out,” Eames says, sounding as weary as he feels. There are more pleasant ways to pass an afternoon than arguing back and forth with oneself, after all.

He'd known this would be coming – what other reason to make Eames watch that charade earlier? The most reasonable line of action would be to take Kaplan up on it, use his greater freedom to do whatever he could for Arthur in the process. But Julietta would not go down gracefully, and she might expose him – both of them, really. Even if Eames managed to kill her, which he's loath to do, there's no telling what kind of dead man switch ploy (or ploys, knowing her) she might have arranged.

Kaplan says, “Have you reconsidered my suggestion?”

“I have.” Eames blinks twice, swallows. “I decline.”

The sense of defeat isn't as terrible as Eames had anticipated. He seems to have burned through all resentment already, all his indignation at having someone else's needs motivate his choices.

Kaplan raises both eyebrows. “I thought I made the situation quite clear to you. I do hope you're not still entertaining thoughts of escape. Nobody will help you, Mr. Eames.”

Perhaps not. Eames looks at Kaplan, eye to eye. “Julietta might break faith,” he says softly. “That doesn't make it true of everyone in the business. It doesn't mean that's what I choose.”

For a moment, Kaplan's look turns piercing. Then he shrugs and calls for the guard.

The walk back to his cell feels longer than ever before. Moral righteousness is a cold companion, Eames finds, but at least, surprisingly restful.

~~

Eames doesn't sleep. His dinner sits in the cell's corner, ignored. He's alert, waiting; now that he's made himself unavailable to do Kaplan's dirty work, there's no telling if Kaplan won't decide to rid himself (and by extension, the world) of Eames altogether.

He keeps his ears pricked for any changes in the noises coming in from outside. So he tenses when he hears Marina's radio crackle to life, then shifts to a waiting position when he hears her walking away. Reaches for the gun Arthur passed him, hidden behind a removable brick in the wall.

Footsteps come hurrying down the hall. Eames isn't surprised by this. Hell, by this point, Eames is looking forward to it.

Stay still, pretend sleep, let them come to you, and then –

“Eames!” hisses Arthur from the corridor.

_Arthur._

Eames moves across the cell so fast it makes him dizzy. Arthur fumbles at the lock, his hands uncharacteristically unstable. "Come on, come _on_ ," he urges just under his breath, as though Eames isn't standing right behind the door, poised to run the very moment Arthur opens the damn thing.

Eames grabs the bulge in his back pocket, feeling for the security of the gun there. It's more likely to get him into trouble than out of it, but it's comforting nevertheless: an option. A way out, as in dreams, though much more final in reality. Hopefully, here the finality will be some other poor bastard's problem.

Finally, the lock snaps open; Eames is on the other side before he can think. Just being beyond the bars feels impossibly good, like properly stretching his limbs for the first time in months. The brief touch of his mouth to Arthur's is a taste of the same freedom, intoxicating and necessary. Stopping is unthinkable.

In hindsight, though, a rather stupid notion. Eames realizes this when he hears a gun's safety clicking off behind him. He turns slowly, hands raised.

"I do not want to shoot you," Marina says. She's quite sincere, if Eames' judgment is correct. It generally is. "Get back in your cell, please. You too, Mr. Gurevich." She moves, aiming at Arthur now. Her hands are very steady, Eames notes.

The reasonable thing would be to get into the cell. He and Arthur can plot escape to their hearts' content later. Even if they stay in captivity, it's not so bad: Kaplan is more greedy than he's cruel. Eames should be able to come up with suitable bribery. That would obviously be the best course of action.

Except... she's got a gun's muzzle trained on Arthur, and Eames just can't let that continue. His own small gun is in his hands before he knows it, cocked and ready to fire. It's a small miracle that Marina hasn't shot them both, but then, Eames has purposefully made that choice as hard as possible for her. He made her call him by his name.

Eames knows knows much more about Marina than _her_ name – her life's aspirations and her little sister's age, her talents, a weak glimpse of who she might become, in time.

Nevertheless, he won't hesitate before he shoots, because it's her or Arthur, and that's no choice at all. Not anymore.

Perhaps she reads that in his eyes, because she does hesitate – and Arthur lunges.

It's over before Eames can even think to yell _no, you idiot!_ – good thing, that, as it would almost certainly have brought another army of guards down on their heads. Marina is down and Arthur has her hands already secured with zip-ties. He slaps duct tape across her mouth; slides her radio to Eames.

“Don't move around too much,” Arthur tells her quietly. “The plastic tightens if you struggle, it can seriously hurt you. Patrol should be here to get you before too long.”

Her look at Arthur is accusative, vaguely betrayed. Given that some of the bruises she's given Eames have yet to heal, he's not feeling terribly sympathetic.

As they sneak down the corridor, Arthur's fingers slide into his like it's the most natural thing in the world.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All thanks be to anatsuno, who beta'd and hand-held. <3

“Any last minute tickets?” Presumably Arthur's speaking English for Eames' benefit. The woman in the booth flicks a bored look at them, typing with the tips of her rather impressive fingernails.

“I have two places on a flight to Prague in two hours,” she says.

Shit. Kaplan's goons could catch up to them any minute. Eames shoulders in, smiles winningly at her. “Anything leaving sooner?” He stops just short of batting his eyeslashes.

More clicks. “Not on the same flight, but I've got one leaving for London in twenty minutes and another for Los Angeles in an hour.”

Eames' eyes flicker to Arthur. That would be perfect, actually, sending both of them to home ground. Safer.

“We'll take the ones to Prague, thanks,” Arthur says. He hesitates, looking at Eames. “Could we maybe--”

But the woman already has their tickets out for them, too late to decide otherwise.

Arthur pays for the tickets. He's got all their money, after all, as well as their passports; he knew, coming to work for Kaplan, that he might have to leave at a moment's notice.

Eames scans the area around them. No one sticks out as potentially dangerous – but then again, Kaplan’s people wouldn’t. They’re professionals. Even so, Eames doesn’t recognize any of the faces, and he does have an eye for that sort of thing. He follows Arthur as he makes way for the metal waiting chairs.

“Why did you end up coming for me when you did?” Eames asks as he walks. After that episode with Marina their getaway was fairly uneventful (thus far), but there wasn't much time to talk.

Arthur casts a reproving look at him. “I know Julietta thinks I'm dumb, but I’d think you knew better. I knew she sold you out. Why else would she get me out of the room before discussing terms with Kaplan?”

“Why would she assume you cared?” Eames inspects his fingernails.

“I'm a crappy actor,” Arthur says, leaning sideways with a contented sigh, rubbing shoulders with Eames. “Fuck, I missed you.”

It's very much mutual, and yet Eames' chest is tight. He looks away.

Arthur's not even protesting the lack of response, humming to himself, deep in thought. “Hey,” he says eventually. “So the thing with Solanas didn't work out, obviously, but I've got some prospects. Feel like checking them out?”

Eames turns to stare at Arthur, whose smile wilts.

“Or not,” Arthur says. “I mean, you obviously don't need me to pick jobs for you.”

“No,” Eames says, and waits for a fight to erupt.

Arthur pulls a book out of his backpack and starts reading. After a moment he looks up at Eames. “I've got another one if you're bored,” he offers. He doesn't even seem annoyed, only tired and a bit messy.

Mostly out of bafflement, Eames accepts the book. Adding insult to injury, it's _The Anubis Gates_ , which Eames has been has been meaning to reread for a while now. He flicks it open and glares at the page until the words begin to make sense.

~~

Anticlimax is all good and all when escaping the criminal element, but this is damned unsettling. Eames claps his book shut. “Go on.” He sighs, looking at Arthur. “Let's get this over with already.”

Arthur marks his place with a piece of paper, looking up at Eames with a small crease in his forehead. “What are you talking about?”

“Don't give me that,” Eames snaps. He hates when people pretend obliviousness. “Say what you have to – “

But he stops mid-sentence, because Arthur is very clearly not pretending.

“Are you okay? Did you hit your head or something?” Arthur's hand goes to Eames' cheek, fingers feathering across his skin.

“I'm fine.” Eames doesn't knock his hand away, but it's a close thing. Without the thin veneer of anger, though, he's feeling worse than before, adrift. “I've been an arsehole, I admit it. I'll be better from now on.” Looking away again, because that concerned expression of Arthur's is making him want to hit someone. Or at least have a loud and messy temper tantrum.

Except Eames doesn't have a right to do that. He's lucky to be free and alive, let alone to have Arthur. This sinking feeling of loss, that pang he gets looking at the list of flights and knowing his destination was decided for him, that will pass in time.

 _The blue of the distance was stolen from me_ , Marina quoted at him once during his enforced stay in the cell. It wasn't her best work, but Eames found it stuck with him.

“Never mind, darling.” He smiles at Arthur – not Eames' best work, either. Still, it'll have to do.

“Eames, what's going on? Are you angry at me?” There's hurt there, now, and bafflement.

Eames grits his teeth. “I said never mind,” he replies shortly. “You were right, weren't you? I was wrong and I was stupid, and I'll just let you call the shots from now on. Wasn't that what you wanted?”

“What are you even talking about?”

Eames spells it out. “The job. All the jobs. You've got everything written down and lined up, and you know everything. Fine.”

Arthur opens his mouth. Words fail to emerge.

Eames watches in bleak satisfaction. He angles closer to Arthur, pitches his voice lower and more intimate. “You _should_ be in charge.” Easier to seduce Arthur into this, cinch them tight and _working_ , because Eames is a pragmatist and he knows how to join those who beat him. “Clearly you’re more suited than me. You can’t tell me you didn’t want to tidy me up from the moment we took up.”

Control comes to Arthur natural as breathing, and he knows it. He probably didn't even notice his attempts to put Eames' messy life into order up till now.

“It's probably better for me as well,” Eames says. He doesn't know who he's trying to console.

“No, don't,” Arthur says, voice urgent and so fucking small Eames wants to scream. “Don't. If it's hurting you then I don't want it.” Gets up, the bastard, as though even this is his decision to make, like the rest of them.

Eames doesn't even think before grabbing him, pulling him back down onto the chair. “Don't you get it, you prick?” Eames is hoarse. “It's going to hurt either way, with or without you. I felt fucking sick not knowing where you are and how you were doing.” There, he's spilled it, he feels like such a dumb arsehole to have it out in the open.

But Arthur only says, “Me, too,” simply, as if it's that obvious.

The ball is in Eames' court. Again. How did this happen? _What now?_

That's decided for him when the boarding call for their flight sounds. Eames shakes his head. “This isn't over,” he warns Arthur.

“Not by a long shot.” Then Arthur flashes him a quick, unexpected smile, all the sweeter for it. “Clearly we've got work to do, Eames.”

“Clearly,” Eames says, somewhat dazed. Frequent exposure to the wattage of Arthur's genuine smile after so long without is having some effect on him.

~~

Eames keeps darting glances over his shoulder, but it seems none of Kaplan's people have made it to the flight. He's darting glances at Arthur, too, who asks him in a low voice, “Are we making it?”

He doesn't seem to be aware of how loaded the question is. Eames swallows. “One must hope.”

Two hours aren't a terribly long time, but it's enough to wear Eames' nerves out. Planning for an attack by a vengeful mobster's mooks is a welcome distraction.

Once they land, everything seems to go in a rush. Arthur maneuvers them capably through Ruzyně airport, has them boarding a taxi to some hotel before Eames has quite found his bearings.

“So,” he hedges, when the drive seems interminable, buildings and trees zooming past them.

“We'll be there soon,” Arthur says, sliding his hand over Eames'. For a given value of _soon_ that feels like a hundred years to Eames, he's correct.

~~

Arthur sits on the bed. “Here we are. Hit me.” His jacket is off, but his shoulders are tensed and squared, as though he meant his request in the literal sense.

Eames needs a moment to catch his breath before replying. “Turns out love isn't like a switch you can just turn off.” Thing is, that's the way it's always been, for him. “I'm... having some trouble adjusting.”

Arthur's looking at him, thoughtful. “My mom told me it was, actually. Like a switch. She said for her it got flipped and that was it. No turning back.” He goes quiet, shoulders drooping slightly. “Just that one time. She didn't like talking about my father.”

Given that Eames know that Arthur's mother raised him alone, given what he just heard, “Not surprising,” he says softly.

Arthur shrugs acceptance. “She told me I'm like her. I didn't use to think so.” His eyes are on Eames', unflinching.

Eames lets out a breath. “I'm not.”

And that's it, what he's been trying to hide from Arthur – and, by extension, himself. “I've never been like that and I don't know what I can promise. I love people and I love them hard, and then I – stop. I always have, before.” He sounds lost and bewildered to his own ears. “I can't promise you anything, not really.”

Arthur laughs. It's not the bitter, resentful thing Eames would have predicted. “Eames,” Arthur says, “who the fuck _can_?”

Eames blinks. This is not going as expected.

“Okay, you – come here, come on.” Arthur motions him closer.

Eames walks to him, feeling the distance break, falling face-down on the bed beside Arthur, who drapes himself over Eames' back, sloppily smooching Eames' nape. Eames lets out a slow, ragged breath, treasures the moment of peace that falls over him as soon as he and Arthur touch.

Arthur slides off, pushing Eames until they're both on their sides, facing one another. “Fuck, I do a bit of romantic exaggeration and you go all _forever and ever_ on me.” Arthur's serious again, calm, but his eyes crinkle. “Let me disentangle this. I love you, okay? I want to be with you and I don't see that changing. Do you have any actual, immediate plans to walk out on me?” He doesn't even let Eames open his mouth. “I mean without intention to come back, not this stupid adventure thing. Do you want to leave me?”

“No,” Eames says, fervently. “Really, really not.”

“Okay, so what more do you want?” Arthur reaches out to Eames, palm open. “I can't guarantee you anything either, really. I might get squished by an asteroid, we can't know what's coming. All I want is a declaration of intent.” He scrubs his hand through his hair, messing it up wonderfully. “For fuck's sake, I thought we've been through this already. Didn't you sort of ask me to marry you or something?”

Eames sets to explain his entire chain of logic regarding the meaning of marriage, and stops himself before he starts. “I meant it.”

It's something of a revelation.

“So, there you have it.” Arthur arches an eyebrow at him. “Anything else?”

It seems so wonderfully easy to leave it at that, but Eames tried that before and look at where _that's_ gotten him. “When I talked about promises, I wasn't just being abstract. I'm worried about it. What happens the next time I take a job you don't approve of?”

Arthur looks at him like he's insane. “Same thing that happened now, except you let me know in advance so I can have your back _without_ having to snoop through your things to know where the hell you got to. I'm lucky you don't clear your browser history – no, scratch that, _you're_ lucky.”

He is, Eames really is, though if he's honest, luck had less to do with it. He'd _wanted_ Arthur to know where he's gone.

It's another second before he catches what Arthur actually said. “You're not angry I left?”

“Uh, no.” Arthur frowns. “Why would I be?”

“You told me not to,” Eames points out. Hell, he can even elaborate: “And you were absolutely right.”

“Get used to it,” Arthur says smugly. He sighs and takes Eames' hand in his. “Seriously, can you explain to me what you're fussing about? I thought you shouldn't go, you went... and?”

And... what? “Oh, right. I suppose next time you'll just want me to skip on along?”

Arthur shrugs again. “If you want to? I'll appreciate a better head's-up, though. Solanas is kind of mad at me for bailing out on her, by the way, but I'll manage.” He bows his head closer to Eames, his hair fanning across the bed linens. “I don't make your decisions for you. I don't want to. I thought that was obvious.”

“For the record, I'd just like to remind you I've made some truly awful choices.”

“Like this shirt,” Arthur mutters. At Eames' raised eyebrow, Arthur says, “You walked into that one. I know you have better taste in clothes than that.”

Eames plucks at his maligned shirt, sighing theatrically. “Next time, _you_ get imprisoned for days on end, and _I'll_ mock your fashion choices afterward.” It's not a bad shirt. It has pelicans on it. It's a fowl Eames happens to be fond of.

“Sure,” Arthur says. “And meanwhile, you can take it off.”

“Romantic,” Eames says drily. He does take the hint and undresses with alacrity. “You might want to let me take a shower first, I hardly had access to proper hygiene while in captivity.”

“What do you mean, _first_?” Arthur says.

And so they find themselves naked under the streaming water together, Eames' hands greedy on Arthur's soft bare skin, sliding wet and soapy down his ribs.

“Fuck, I've missed you,” Arthur gasps, slotting his hips against Eames, his blunt hard cock nudging Eames' lower stomach.

“So you've said.” Eames is distracted by the muscle in Arthur's thigh, jumping minutely as Arthur strains not to thrust against him. “Entirely mutual, I assure you.”

Arthur answers by catching Eames' mouth in a hot, yearning kiss, Arthur's lips moving slow across his until Eames opens up and Arthur pushes in, with such focused intent it's only a matter of time until Eames' knees give. “I think we're clean enough,” Eames says, hoarse and slightly desperate.

Arthur closes the tap and steps out. Eames follows him with all due haste. It's been far too long since he'd had anything but the dubious comfort of his own hand.

Which is when Eames' bloody inner voice decide to chime in with _And how do you think you'll like it, when you're continents apart and can't see each other for months at a time?_

“Eames?” Arthur is on the bed already, frowning at him. That's really not the expression Eames wants him to have right now so he steps up quickly, crawling onto the bed, laying his head over Arthur's chest. Arthur's fingers card through his hair.

Eames shivers at the sensation, pushes up for more touches. “I've never really been in a monogamous relationship,” he says, soft words spilling that he had no intention at all to let out. “Not... ones that stayed monogamous, shall we say. I'm not terribly good at it.”

Arthur's hand stills for a moment, then moves again. “Has there been anyone else?” Eames doesn't read judgment in his voice. He doesn't read much of anything at all.

“No,” he replies, for the first time in his life grateful that someone bashed him over the head before he could make a pick-up line. (The threat has been leveled at him before.) Eames really doesn't want to lie to Arthur right now. For a very strange moment, he's not certain he even _could_ lie.

Possibly, that's the most terrifying part of it yet.

For a good long while, Arthur's quiet. “Is that something you need?” he says at last. “Sleeping with other people, I mean.”

“No, but. People slip up, don't they?” Eames doesn't know why he's even continuing to talk, except that Arthur's still petting him, still breathing steady under him, making no move to pull away. “I have done, before. I might do again, who's to say otherwise?”

“You're the only one who can say anything about that.”

Eames pushes up on his arms. Arthur's still frowning, but it's not an angry frown. This is Arthur's problem-solving face. “ _You_ had some choice words on the subject, as I recall.”

“Yeah. Well.” Arthur braces himself on his elbow, almost literally nose-to-nose with Eames. “I trust you.” He says it baldly, like a dare.

“I don't know if you've realized, but exploiting people's trust is what I do for a living,” Eames says. He'd roll off Arthur, but he feels stuck in place, mesmerized somehow.

Arthur's eyes are gazing right at Eames', unmoving. “Then why are you working so hard to convince me against it?”

“Because I don't bloody want to see you hurt, all right?” Eames isn't yelling, but it's a close thing. He does roll off Arthur then, scrubbing his face with his hands.

Arthur's close enough that Eames can feel the warmth radiating off his naked skin. “Which is why I don't think you will,” Arthur says. “Hurt me, I mean.”

Eames makes a pitiful noise and turns back to face him. “I really don't do well without regular sex.” It's dumb and embarrassing, but it's true.

Arthur moves closer, hooking his ankle over Eames' calf. “Regular sex sounds good to me.” His voice drops half an octave, and Eames' cock reacts to it like a trained animal.

Damn it, must everything about Arthur be so enticing? Eames grits his teeth. “That won't be so easy to manage when we're half a continent away from one another.”

“So, don't pick jobs that keep you half a continent away,” Arthur says, all practicality again. As if it was that simple. This is probably reflected in Eames' expression, since Arthur cracks a small smile and leans in to kiss him. “We'll figure it out,” Arthur says into Eames' mouth. “You can take separate jobs if you want, but nobody says you _have_ to.”

There's definitely something to contend there, but right now he has the choice of further discussion or taking Arthur's cock in his mouth, and Eames knows what his priorities are. If that makes him a weak, weak man, so be it.

~~

Arthur's gone half-soft during their conversation, and Eames takes his time suckling him back to full hardness, dawdling to fully appreciate the taste and feel of him in his mouth. Arthur's hands are curled loosely around Eames' shoulders, his hips moving lazily under Eames' hands.

“Fuck,” Arthur whispers. “Fuck, Eames, this is good.”

Eames pushes against the mattress, the bedsheets a wicked tease against his prick. He knows he could go for it right now, his own orgasm and Arthur's, swallow down Arthur's cock and rub himself off within minutes.

But it's so _good_ just like it is, it's been so long; Eames doesn't even care if he's being a bit cruel to Arthur, whose balls are drawing high and tight. He must be so ready to come, has to be aching for it. Eames' hips give a little shimmy at the thought, and he groans.

Arthur echos him, some frantic purpose to his movements now. “Gonna come. Eames, please, let me – make me--”

The words go directly to Eames' cock, bypassing his brain. He has just barely the presence of mind to slip his own palm between his legs, rubbing himself off with Arthur's taste in his mouth, deep and satisfying.

As soon as his last shudders are done Arthur pushes him off. “Well,” he says, kissing Eames' forehead. “That looked like fun.”

“Mmm.” Eames tries to grope for Arthur's erection, hoping he's making it clear he's not nearly done with it.

Arthur laughs. “Hey, can I fuck you?”

Eames rolls on his back, spreading his legs. “ _Please_.”

The look in Arthur's eyes is deeply joyous as he fingers Eames open, moving inside him with surety. Eames trembles, a bit overstimulated and not minding it at all.

“I think you need me to seriously fuck you,” he whispers into Eames' mouth, punctuating it with a hard kiss and a roll of his thighs. Eames hisses, crossing his legs behind Arthur's back. “I think you need a little something to remember me by wherever it is you're going next.”

“Possessive,” Eames gasps.

Arthur's smile is a lovely display of teeth, and he demonstrates them further by nipping at Eames' ear. “Very. And I don't give up, no matter what.”

That is true, that's the very first thing Eames noticed about him, that obstinate, unmovable--

“Yes, yes, _there_ ,” Eames pants, since Arthur's next push is accompanied with a little swivel of his hips that feels absolutely marvelous.

“Gotcha,” Arthur says, sufficiently red-faced and wide-eyed that he shouldn't sound that amused, but Eames doesn't give a damn so long as Arthur buggers him well and thoroughly.

He comes again, unexpected, when Arthur bends to whisper filth into his ear, tells Eames in great detail how he kept himself occupied while they were apart. He recovers just in time to see Arthur's eyes lose focus, his thrusts losing their careful rhythm entirely.

Eames pets Arthur as he lies still on top of him, breathing, slowly slipping out.

 _No condom_ , Eames notes. They haven't used one since their first time together, Arthur hasn't even brought it up. Eames doesn't know if he wants to curl away from Arthur's implacable trust or give him a strong ding on the ear for being such an utter idiot.

 _He's only an idiot if you prove him wrong,_ whispers Eames' insidious inner voice.

Eames mentally rolls his eyes at himself. Arthur's already conked out, softly snoring in Eames' arms. Staying up to fret is singularly losing its appeal.

~~

Eames wakes up before Arthur, before even the sun has risen fully. He stretches and gets up. Showering feels like a religious experience; yesterday's attempts at cleanup were rather spotty, and Eames was mostly distracted at the time. He gets dressed, softly pulls the door closed behind him, hesitates. Turns around and back to the room to leave a note: _Gone to stretch my legs, be back before lunchtime._

It's simple courtesy, is all.

The hotel is on the edge of a residential area. It takes a bit of trial and error for Eames to make his way to the nearest tram station, and thence to Old Town Square. He's been to Prague before, but not recently and hardly for any length of time. He only vaguely knows what he's looking for – the hum of human crowds, gaudily lit shop windows. Somewhere he can get lost outside himself for a few hours.

Eames picks a few pockets for the sport of it, slips between two buildings to rifle through the wallets' contents. A few hundred euros, nothing Eames really needs, but nice to have at any rate.

A flash of light catches his eye, the sun moving out from behind a cloud. Eames blinks forward, finds himself staring at the display window across the road.

Without even meaning to, he strolls closer, inspecting the goods. The security is clearly rubbish, and given the highly public location Eames foresees this shop closing within the month. Eames might clean it out himself.

Instead, he steps inside. The owner speaks passable English and is willing to haggle. Eames makes his purchase swiftly, bargaining the woman down with a quick efficiency almost worthy of Arthur.

“Would you like to,” the owner says after Eames forks over the cash, making an awkward gesture.

“Put it on?” Eames says, meaning to snort in derision. How he ends up leaving the shop with that band of gold around his finger, he hasn't the least idea.

It feels nice, though. Sits in place just right, a present, small pressure. Eames has always enjoyed jewelry.

The other ring he keeps in his pocket. He doesn't intend to give it to Arthur, or not just yet, though he did pick it with Arthur in mind.

For now, Eames just wants to keep it. As a reminder, perhaps, of a morning in an unfamiliar place, where his steps were unfettered except for the knowledge of someone waiting for him when he chose to return.

 _World's smallest handcuffs,_ Eames thinks, twisting the ring around his finger. He's far less surprised than he should be to find himself smiling.


End file.
